Here Without You (Between the Lines #4) Paperback

by Tammara Webber

  He’s been to Kathryn’s for two more overnights, during which I got him used to the idea of talking online with Reid. Not that he talks – but he listens.

  Reid signed on once in full costume – sword and all. River’s eyes widened while Reid told us about rappelling down a sheer cliff that day – how the winds were so gusty that his hair kept sweeping straight up, and the director kept yelling Cut! so someone could spray his hair back down while he hung in place on a rope.

  ‘It looked like this,’ he said, making his hair stand straight up and managing to tease a smile from our son.

  Our son. Every time I think or say it, it becomes less odd and more real.

  River’s next overnight will take place in LA. He’ll stay with me three days and nights, and Reid four. Kris will send daily reports to the judge. When I asked her point-blank if the judge was considering an early placement due to Wendy’s health issues, she told me she couldn’t reveal that sort of thing. And then she arched a brow and gave me a meaningful smile.

  I’m filming the season finale for Life’s a Beach this week. It’s odd working with my old castmates, most of whom would give anything to land either of the film parts I’ve done since I left. There are also a couple of new girls who were hired as replacement-blondes, which puts me on the receiving end of some spiteful glares and mumbled asides. If I decide to return to the show, their dreams and jockeying for the position of top bitch are over.

  So sad, so sorry.

  Should Xavier and I both choose to stick around, the writers will devise an angsty continuation of the boiling-point romance between the now of-age Kirsten and her sexy long-time obsession, Kristopher. A passionate consummation will finally occur (during ratings week, no doubt), and then some justification for them to part will be devised, of course. Fans will be glued to the screen every week – whining and panting for our characters to screw each other again … until Stan and the writers finally decide to land them in bed. Or more likely, on a picturesque, isolated beach – as if those are all over the place up and down the coast of California.

  Yawn.

  Xavier is as dense as ever, but we still have unrestrained chemistry on film, so Stan is downright smug over his own genius in getting both of us to agree to do the finale. We do a scene that takes two hours of body contortions and crude (on Xavier’s part) lip-locks, and at the end of it, Stan tosses his arms in the air and says, ‘Am I not goddamned brilliant?’

  He’s so pompous I want to choke him. But we’re almost done with the episode and it’s been a long day, so I smile tightly and devise a half-dozen ways of killing him in my pretty little head.

  Not an hour later, in front of the entire cast and crew, Stan bestows a smarmy, veneer-toothed grin on Xavier and me. ‘I guess you two tried the wonderful world of movie-making and decided that a nice, steady, big-network pay-cheque is something to be missed after all, huh?’

  As if we failed on the big screen, like so many optimistic television actors before us.

  Xavier grunts in response, but he’s focused on a three-meat sandwich one of the giggly production assistants ran out (literally) to get him – so his grunt could be a sound of carnivorous appreciation.

  I hold my tongue, just barely, until I slide into my car and call Janelle, who’s left me five or six messages I don’t bother to listen to before dialling her back.

  ‘Brooke!’ she shrieks, and I dial down the volume on my phone. ‘You got the offer!’

  Crap. I was about to beg her to find me another romcom, or a soap, or, hell – a set of commercials – anything but more Stan, as long as it’s filmed locally. I don’t want to talk about Paper Oceans today. Last week, I hinted at the fact that I’d most likely ask her to turn it down, and she cried. I have never heard Janelle cry, and Christ on a cracker, I hope I never do again.

  Not to mention the fact that I really do want that role.

  After today, I’d like to tell Stan to take his beach-bunny role and stuff it back up his ass.

  ‘I’m driving,’ I say.

  ‘Ohmygod! You know how I feel about talking and driving!’

  Yes. Yes, I do.

  ‘Then don’t leave me a hundred messages while I’m filming – I thought someone died. I’ll call you later.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like a promising reaction. Brooke. Please. Do. Not. Turn. This. Down.’

  ‘Getting on the freeway!’ Total lie.

  ‘Okay, okay – call me tonight.’

  Shit.

  I’m meeting my personal paparazza at my new place in about an hour. Despite Reid’s reluctance to use Rowena to introduce River to the world, I have faith in her – to a point, of course, restricted to her job. She’s always shown me in the light in which I wanted to be seen. She’s never sold a pic I hated. She’s even been handy a couple of times dispelling rumours I didn’t want to spread.

  Even so, we’ve never met at my place before. My home has always been totally off-limits to the media – including Rowena. My new condo is situated inside a walled, guarded community. Ins and outs are filmed, and all non-residents are stopped by a security guard at the big iron gate at the front. Unauthorized visitors are sent packing.

  The doorbell signals her arrival.

  ‘Hello, Rowena.’ She’s wary, like a wild animal being lured into a trap, but too hungry not to follow the smell of food. I shake her hand, which I guess I’ve never done before, because her hand is tiny. I knew she was skinny almost to the point of malnourishment, but up close, she looks like she’s got all the might of a parakeet. I can’t imagine how she heaves that camera equipment around.

  ‘Ms Cameron,’ she nods, entering haltingly. It’s like she expects to encounter a tripwire and be impaled on my wall any second. I’ve asked her to call me Brooke a dozen times before, but I realized a while back she was never going to, and I gave up.

  She’s brought her gear, but it’s all zipped inside a tattered black bag. Glancing around surreptitiously, her desire to fish out her camera is unmistakable. We sit on my new sofas, skirting easily around the rounded corners of the reclaimed wood coffee table. There’s a pink-tipped ivy plant of some sort in the centre of it, an indoor potted tree by the window and several hanging and potted plants on my top-floor patio.

  I hired a plant person. Seriously.

  ‘I’ve got a proposition for you. It involves top-secret information, and of course a story I want told – photographically – in a certain light.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ she nods. Her ambitious eyes give me pause.

  ‘What I’m about to tell you cannot leave this room. Ever.’

  Her eyes widen slightly. I’ve trusted Rowena with a lot over the past few years, but I’ve never prefaced anything like this.

  ‘You’ve always been more than fair, Ms Cameron. I’ll of course agree not to share any information you entrust me with.’

  I take a deep breath and keep my eyes directly on hers. ‘I’m adopting a son.’

  She blinks twice, stunned. ‘Congratulations.’ Whatever she expected, this isn’t it.

  ‘Thank you – but it’s more complicated than that sounds, which is why I need you. There’s no ringing biological clock, no philanthropic statement. This isn’t a foreign adoption. I’m adopting my own child, a baby I gave up when he was born four and a half years ago.’ Her eyes bulge. I’ve never seen this much emotion on Rowena’s face. ‘I assume you’ve made the leap everyone else will make – the question of who’s the daddy. Well, you’re in luck. If you agree to take photos of the three of us that he and I will approve prior to release, we’ll give you an exclusive.’

  I don’t have to tell her that once this comes out, it will be huge. If she times this right, and gets ahead of everyone else, she’ll make a freaking fortune.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ she says. And then she does something I never, ever expected to see Rowena do. She bursts into tears.

  Brooke: Rowena is all set.

  Reid: K. What’s the plan?

  Brooke: I was t
hinking we could go somewhere semi-public and have her photograph us ‘candidly’ – like we arranged to happen with you and Emma last May, outside the airport.

  Reid: Shit. How did she ever forgive me?

  Brooke: You told her the truth when it counted, even if it made you look bad. For what it’s worth, I admired you for that. Hated the shit out of you at the time, but admired you. You were a better man than me.

  Reid: Haha.

  Brooke: So, one of the hiking spots in the Hills, really early on a weekday? OH – I know – let’s do it the day he transfers from me to you. The kid swap. Like divorced couples.

  Reid: Yeah – perfect. That will answer the ‘are they a couple?’ question too.

  Brooke: Ok, cool. Rowena is on this. She was stunned that you stepped up, btw. I think you’ve gained a new fan. She’s a single mom, apparently. She said her guy used to knock her around. She left the day he hit her kid.

  Reid: Jesus.

  Brooke: She says she’s always liked me because I don’t take shit off anyone, lol.

  Reid: Haha. Truth.

  Reid: So have you heard anything more about Paper Oceans?

  Brooke: Yeah. Janelle got the call earlier today – they’ve officially offered it to me. But I’d have to be in Australia all of June. I can’t do it.

  Reid: Brooke. This is your CAREER. Say yes. I’ll take him in June. I’ll probably be done filming by then. If not, it’ll be a small overlap. He and the au pair we’re hiring can come to New York with me. It’ll be fine.

  Reid: Unless you want to do Life’s a Beach instead …

  Reid: I’ve heard that Xavier guy is an exceptional kisser …

  Reid: And Stan is a gem of a producer and not at all egocentric …

  Brooke: I’m crying. Holy shit. Are you sure? Are you SURE?

  Reid: YES. We’ll be fine here without you. This is going to be his life. He’ll adjust. I can do this. And yes, I even promise to call on the all-knowing and ever-powerful Graham if I need advice.

  Brooke: Is it okay if I kind of love you right now?

  Reid: Yeah. Is it okay if I thank you for letting me knock you up?

  Brooke: God, we’re weird.

  Reid: Hell yeah we are.

  27

  DORI

  ‘Hey, Deb.’ I lean to kiss her temple and she blinks, but her fixed expression otherwise remains like the face of an impassive wax figure. ‘I thought you might be getting tired of tulips, and also, one of Dad’s rosebushes bloomed. They’re pink – which I know you think is such a cliché flower colour. But they smell so good that I didn’t think you’d mind.’

  Depositing last week’s purple tulips in the trash can, I rinse and fill the vase in her bathroom sink. It’s been five weeks since I’ve seen my sister.

  Five weeks since we buried Esther. Four weeks since Reid and I were in San Francisco. Three weeks since I’ve spoken to him. Two weeks since he stopped texting and leaving voicemails.

  ‘I like Cal. My roommate, Shayma, is from Louisiana. You’d love her. She’s a business major, but she does community outreach projects with me.’

  Shayma hadn’t asked about Reid – or the fact that I hadn’t mentioned him in a while – until a couple of days ago. When I told her I hadn’t had a chance to talk to him in a few days, she pursed her lips and said um-hmm, but nothing more.

  ‘I’m taking all intro classes this semester, but most of my professors are pretty cool. And you were right – the campus is one funky place. There’s a full-scale T-rex model in the Life Science building. The grounds are beautiful, but the architecture is all over the place. And there’s tons of activist history intact – like the building that’s missing an outside handle because during protests fifty years ago, students chained the doors shut, and the administration took one handle off so they couldn’t do it again. In the upper plaza, student groups hand out flyers and sell things to raise money for charity. Sometimes, opposing groups have tables feet apart, but everybody stays remarkably civil.’

  Running a brush through Deb’s short hair, I recall what it looked like before her accident. She had beautiful shoulder-length hair, chestnut with auburn highlights she did herself. Now it’s short, dull and frizzy; I make a mental note to bring conditioner with me next time. The bare spots from her surgeries have finally grown back in, though the surgical scar will remain a sort of odd, random part at the back of her head.

  ‘Berkeley feels like a small town, even though it’s not. It’s definitely not like LA or San Francisco – which you can see from certain spots on campus, if the fog hasn’t rolled in.’

  Deb’s chair is positioned so she can ‘see’ the view from her window, which is no more or less ridiculous than me taking her for a stroll in the grounds. My parents insist there is no proof that she’s totally oblivious to what goes on around her, because her brain registers some activity. In some ways, this is more horrifying than if she’d remained medically unresponsive, because no one can assure us that she isn’t aware to some degree and simply unable to respond, though her doctors continue to reiterate that her brain activity is too inconsequential to represent comprehension.

  My parents continue to hear what they want to hear.

  I continue to speak to my sister because I have to talk to someone.

  ‘I haven’t spoken to Reid in a while. I miss him. Sometimes it feels like my heart is going to burst, and I almost want it to.’

  When I was very young, I had chronic ear infections and a grandma with unconventional ideas about what constituted a helpful story. ‘Back in my day, there were no antibiotics for such things,’ she told me during one particularly excruciating episode. ‘Your eardrum just swelled up till it popped.’

  ‘Oh, Mother! Don’t tell her your horror stories!’ Mom said, aghast.

  ‘Well, after it popped, it stopped hurting!’ Grandma huffed. ‘Problem solved.’

  I keep waiting for my heart to pop.

  ‘He has a son. River. He thinks that’s why I stopped talking to him – he thinks I’m angry he kept it from me. He doesn’t understand how easily I could forgive and understand that choice. It’s true that when he told me, and I looked at his picture on Reid’s phone, that was when I felt myself detaching. But anger wasn’t the reason for that.’

  I place a blanket over Deb’s lap and take a light sweater from her closet. Clothing her is very much like dressing an infant on the cusp of being a toddler – she doesn’t help, but she doesn’t fight against me as I bend her elbow gently and pull her arm through the sweater.

  Once outside, I resume our one-way conversation.

  ‘I’m such a coward – I’m terrified that if I meet River, he’ll become important to me. And when everything ends with Reid, I’ll lose him too.’

  I find our spot – a secluded bench surrounded by waist-high camellia shrubs covered in white blossoms. Taking a seat, I face Deb’s chair to me and stare at her beautiful hazel eyes. She blinks slowly, seemingly focused on something in the distance over my shoulder. Positioned as I placed them before we left her room, her hands rest in her lap, fingers twitching as they sometimes do – just another involuntary movement, doctors insist.

  ‘I know you’d tell me I’m being spineless,’ I say to Deb now. ‘Only you’d say it more gently, like: Dori, you’re braver than this. It’s true, though – I’m gutless where Reid is concerned. If I talk to him, I’ll want to believe in everything he says.’

  My eyes fill, my heart compressing as I wait for the pop that never comes. ‘I know I’m hurting him, and I hate that.’ After his last text: Please, goddammit it, not again – I almost caved. It took every ounce of willpower not to answer him. ‘But it wouldn’t be fair to try to keep him when I have nothing to offer him in return.’

  I swipe the tears away before they have a chance to track down my face.

  ‘There’s something I never told you about that decision I made four years ago.’ I take a shuddering breath. ‘I’ve never felt a middle ground between acceptance and remorse
. Every day for the last four years, it’s been one or the other. Black or white. There was no grey, but I could bear it, because I had you. When I lost you, I began slipping into perpetual guilt. Carrying that secret, alone, for the first time, while trying to balance the idea of a benevolent God with a God who could let this happen to you – it was like falling into quicksand.’

  Reid saved me from going under. He’d needed me to help him see who he could be, and in return, he allowed me to be myself in a way I never have. I was content to accept that happiness as long as it lasted. To try to make him happy while he was mine.

  ‘Deb,’ I whisper, leaning closer. ‘I feel hollow. I feel separate from everything and everyone. Nothing is touching me except the things that hurt. You always told me that if I helped other people, even if I was just going through the motions, it would keep me grounded. It would eventually help me define and know myself again. But it’s not working this time. I don’t know who I am, in relation to anyone else. I’ve lost me.’

  When I get home, Dad is brewing his Saturday afternoon ‘sermon-busting coffee’.

  ‘Hey, sweetheart. How was Deb?’

  I almost say the same, but that’s not what he means. ‘The roses looked beautiful in her room, and when we got back in from a circuit in the garden, the whole room smelled rosy.’

  He smiles. ‘You don’t think she minds that they’re pink?’

  I don’t think she notices that they’re pink.

  ‘No, Dad.’ I smile, handing him the keys to the Civic.

  ‘If you might need the car later, just keep those,’ he says.

  I shake my head. ‘Nick is coming over. We’re going to get an early dinner and catch up before he goes back to Wisconsin tomorrow. Our breaks are on consecutive weeks instead of the same one.’

  ‘Oh? That’s a pity.’ He looks hopeful, and I bite back the desire to tell him that ship has long since sailed.

  ‘It’s okay.’ I shrug. ‘At least I get to see him once.’